


Silver Spun

by bumblebee03



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Pain, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Young Love, Young Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 10:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebee03/pseuds/bumblebee03
Summary: “I loved you. I still love you… я тебя люблю.”The dark boy cast an amused glance to Victor’s wide eyes, and smiled a merciless smile. He laughed back a quiet, toxic reply.“Nobody will ever love you, шлюха.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This went from an idea me and my friend played around with back when YOI was airing to something much sadder :') I've been wanting to throw hands with Pasha for nearly 2 years now!

Victor Nikiforov had been born and brought up a prodigy child. He was on the ice barely after he learned to stand; he mastered jumps years ahead of other students, with dexterity and determination. He reached his teens with triple loops and lutzes. Academically, too, Victor was the pride of his family. As an only child, his parents had devoted their time to teaching him, to employing tutors, weekend classes, and summer camps. He had a talent for algebra. He was a grade 4 violin player by 12. He was a trophy child. 

When Victor was young, he failed to realise quite how strong the pride his parents held for him was, how strict their control on his life- the small, bright child, as a pre-teen, always wondered why he never went around to his friends’ houses, why he never played in the street on cold winter days or mild summer evenings. Whenever he’d ask his parents about it, they’d cast a glance aside and simply answer him that his time was much more important than the other children’s, that he couldn’t waste it on childish games. After a while, the young boy learned to stop asking his parents anything at all. 

It must have been Victor’s thirteenth birthday, on that snow-covered December afternoon, that Victor got a taste of the outside world. Having medalled once more at his National Juniors, his parents arranged a birthday party for him, as a reward, and allowed him to invite all of his friends, granted that wasn’t very many. Victor had never celebrated his birthday before, at least not like this; before it was always a nice, formal card and a sad smile from his coach and a faltering ‘Happy Birthday’ from his parents- of course, there was never enough time for celebration. On that day, as much of a basic gathering as it was, with cake and a few shy children singing him a happy birthday and handing him small parcels before they filtered out into the thick snow, Victor had never felt more elated than he did then. He cried for joy, embraced his parents until they coldly placed him down and placed the next day’s training schedule on the table, but Victor didn’t care; his heart soared at the idea of love and fun. 

It began to change, though, when Victor surpassed that level of maturity. He started paying more attention to his schedules, the way his parents were so cold to him, his lack of free time, his prissy tutors and depressed coach, and this tension kept building inside him, this slow-burning anger for his situation. He had asked one of the girls he got on with if this was normal, but she simply shook her head and looked devastated, shocked, held his hand gave him a hug. He was even angrier than before, even more betrayed and confused, until one day Victor snapped. He skipped practice that Friday, and the Wednesday after that too, spending his time instead getting to know the popular crowds behind the kiosk- Alexei, Ivan, Boris and Vlad, the boisterous clowns of the school, and the more reserved kid that they hung out with, Pasha. Victor didn’t really pay much attention to the main four since they were loud, mocking and manly, but Pasha, he seemed much more welcoming. He was quite tall, lanky and dark-haired, with piercing eyes, green as the blades of grass you see in ventures past the mountains and springs. His eyes were fresh, open, his mouth drawn always into a little contented upturn. He drew Victor in magnetically; he could never take his eyes off him. 

Victor’s parents were having none of it. There was shouting, there were door banging, phone calls, plans for new regimes, coaches, tutors for Victor, and his mother was weeping at the notion of her trophy son going down the drain. Victor’s father, a stern, tight-lipped man, was quietly enraged. Victor feared him more than he ever had. Yet, despite all of these threats, these changes, Victor had started to skip class more often to hide out in the bathrooms. Ivan gave him a cigarette once, and he coughed heavily on the glowing cylinder, but the boys saw him as one of their own. Victor had his first kiss not long after, behind the kiosk with some small, skinny girl with too many piercings in her ears. He hated it but pretended not to. Meanwhile, behind all this, Victor was falling for Pasha more and more. On more than one occasion, he had to hold his hand to help him up a wall or when they were running to hide, and his skin was delicate and smooth, with no blemishes. This was comforting to Victor, whose hands had gone rough from years of uncomfortably scraping ice, tying laces, stopping falls; it seemed unreal how perfect the boy was. 

Victor lost his virginity when he was sixteen years old, at a house party that Alexei threw when his parents were out of town for the weekend. It was the same girl he had kissed before, with her thick, dark lipstick and threatening colour scheme. Once more, he hated it completely but decided to fake it for the sake of his friends’ approval. The group embraced him even more, and they started staying out later, Victor having to sneak out early from evening practice or whatever he was doing. They would sit in the park at night and pass around a bottle of vodka; Victor sat comfortably on Pasha’s lap, who’d be playing with his hair. He was in love with that boy, with every inch of his soul, and truthfully, he wanted to show it in any small way he could, so once he ripped a bright narcissus from the damp ground and stuck it in Pasha’s dark locks. The other boys around them laughed and called them gay, but never meant any real harm.

One afternoon, after the last period had ended, Victor exited his school, to see Pasha waiting for him at the gate as he always did. This time, the taller boy wrapped his hand around Victor’s wrist and walked with him behind the school grounds, into a thin little bike alleyway. He had pinned him against the cold whitewashed brick wall roughly and proceeded to have sex with him. Victor cried out in pain, pleaded for him to stop, and struggled against the boy’s grip, yet the taller was unrelenting. He paid no attention to Victor’s muffled screams, his soft, unblinking eyes and the rosewater tears spilling from them. Victor whispered softly, tearfully, in Pasha’s ear: 

“I loved you. I still love you… я тебя люблю.”

The dark boy cast an amused glance to Victor’s wide eyes and smiled a merciless smile. He laughed back a quiet, toxic reply.

“Nobody will ever love you, шлюха.”

After he was finished with him, Pasha hurried off, stoic, leaving Victor to sink to the ground in utter despair. He felt dirty, betrayed, and used by the one he loved the most. He hugged his knees close to his chest and sobbed as the snowfall worsened around him, sobbed until it was evening and he had to pick himself up and drag his sore feet home. He never told his parents what had happened, but instead strived to re-adapt to his old life of training and studying. His grades gradually went up, and within a year, he was once more passable. For Victor, skating was now a chain, a rusted, heavy chain holding him back from his life, but he continued it. He carried on for the sake of his parents, who had nothing but sorrow for their lost son, and he once more won title after title. All the while, in school, Victor was being harassed. Pasha’s gang had turned on him; they spread rumours about him trying to seduce Pasha, about him being gay, a little whore looking for attention. Victor’s days got more and more unbearable, being spat at and shoved about in the corridors, people pushing him down the stairs. The teachers turned a blind eye to such issues. 

One thing Victor could never understand, though, was how there were people left caring for him. Back when he was in the gang, they used to bully younger years, make their lives miserable. Now, those youngsters did their best to comfort him, reassured him, and provided kindness. Victor was confused, baffled by simple human empathy, he felt he did not deserve such things after all he did. Yet, there was nothing these kids could do to stop the bullying. It carried on and for Victor the days got harder to live through, until he reached his breaking point. The one girl he had as a friend all those years ago, she stood in front of him, the whole school backing her up. 

‘No wonder you’re a filthy dandy. With that long hair, you sure do look like a slutty girl, of course you like boys.’

 

That month, on his nineteenth birthday, Victor moved to St. Petersburg by himself. He resigned from his coach and contacted a man named Yakov Feltsman. The night before he departed for the city, Victor had sat down in front of his mirror, his silver locks falling gracefully down his back. He shakily picked up an old pair of scissors from the cupboard, and let the tears fall in time with the strands of spun silver to the floor. 

This was the new beginning for Victor Nikiforov.


	2. 'Victor'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wanna cry more? here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful best friend allowed me to post her take on our idea too, in the form of a poem!   
> I'm still blown away by how amazing she is at these things.  
> You can find her tumblr at https://oh-my-sanders.tumblr.com/

You are perfect.   
His parents beamed with joy,   
Another award won, another day done.   
Golden stars hung above him always.   
Trophy after trophy. Medal after Medal.   
His gapped smile made our sun envious, Knowing it could never shine half as bright.   
His eyes sparkled with hope always,   
Knowing he could achieve anything.   
Anything he wanted. 

Are they perfect?   
He sat to himself watching them bicker once more.   
They were proud of him still, but their glare could kill.   
A high level was set so far above him.  
Shout after shout, demand after demand.   
His small world got a whole lot bigger too quickly.   
That's when he realised that maybe they were not perfect.   
A big new school…   
And he could do anything.   
Anything he wanted. 

This is perfect.   
His new friends were so cool.   
Sure they all were mean to those around, but it felt so good to make others frown.   
He had grown out of that mold his parents had made for him.   
New me and New Victor. Better than before  
He felt like he could rule the school with his friends beside him.   
And that's when it started.   
The drinking.   
The smoking.   
The…feelings. 

He is perfect.   
Victor watched him take another drag from his cigarette,  
Wishing so desperately to be in its position...  
And upon his lips  
It wasn't right. He shouldn't feel this way. It hurt him each day,   
Each touch, urging him to fight on.   
Each whisper, of encouragement.   
Each look, of desire, of want.   
It felt so good to hurt like this, it felt like he was always on cloud nine.   
High on his own personal drug of his scent of sweat and punches and blood. 

I can be perfect.   
His long silvery hair cascaded over his shoulders, like an infinite waterfall.   
With fishes of blue orchid petals laced into the stream.   
He took one last look in the mirror, saw his medals of gold surrounding it and winced.   
The words had still stuck with him.   
“When did our perfect son decide to leave!? “  
The shouted words. Scented of hatred.   
His father and mother didn't understand. He was perfect.   
He even said so. 

 

“You're perfect Vitya”   
He mumbled into his reddened ears.   
The whispered words. Scented with alcohol.   
His arms had wrapped around his flushed chest.   
Victor froze in his hot embrace of slip-ups and mumbled confessions.   
His words lingered in his mind and his breath remained on his nose.   
“My pretty winter doll”  
His.   
The word sounded so perfect on their lips.   
So beautiful. So perfect.   
Victor had to tell him how he felt too.   
He could do anything.  
He can do this. 

It was perfect.   
They stood, alone, behind the school.   
Victor wore his hair down.   
He liked it like that, said he looked pretty.   
He spoke every rehearsed word, sounding like soft music to finally get this off his chest.   
He closed his eyes as he spoke.   
Imagining his smile after he had told him those words.   
я тебя люблю  
He would embrace him once more, and kiss him gently.   
And speak gently...  
Victor opened his eyes and smiled brightly.   
He had done it. 

 

… 

 

Laughter.   
He...   
He was laughing at him?  
He looked angry.   
Скажи мне, что ты шутишь. 

That...   
This wasn't right.   
No, he screamed in his mind but only a whisper came out.   
A whisper of hurt. 

His face turned dark.   
Those bright green eyes had turned into whirlpools of darkness.   
His smile had turned rapidly into a snarl. 

What…   
What was happening?   
He backed against a wall, feeling the blue fall away and onto his shoulders. And onto the ground beneath them. 

Cutting silence passed them, a lump rose in his throat, this was… this was supposed to be perfect. 

I should have known you were one of those disgusting queers. 

The words shot through him like a million bullets at once. He winced at the pain.   
His words kept coming, louder and louder, closer and closer. 

Their faces were just inches apart and Victor felt his hot, heavy breath on his face. 

Ha, are you crying you little freak? 

He didn't even notice the tears, his words were so different than usual. 

So harsher.   
So hurting. 

He pushed him against the wall, by his throat. Spitting those hateful, hurting words.   
Victor couldn't breathe, his big world came crashing down as the scent of his hate that once brought him high, surround him, filling him with sadness and disgust.

**нелюбимый**

**нелюбимый**

**нелюбимый**

Over and over.   
Each hit.   
Over and over.   
Each year.   
They just wouldn't stop. 

Please stop.   
Please. 

The blood and tears mixed onto the ground as he lies there, broken blue petals surrounding him. 

And he laughed again.   
He laughed. 

**How could someone be such a fuck up to raise somebody as disgusting as you?**

That was the final hit for Victor.   
He broke down into sobs.   
His body shaking.   
His throat making such a hoarse and loud and horrible noise.

That's when the others came. 

They hurt him more, broke him down until he was the dirt beneath them. 

And Victor just lied there.   
And he thought.   
He was nothing.   
He was nowhere near perfect.   
He was disgusting. 

He lay there, broken, bloody and covered in dirt. The dirt that he was.   
His silver waterfall had become barbed wire.   
Matted and sharp and ugly.   
So ugly.   
So disgusting.   
He hated it.   
He hated…   
Victor. 

He hated who he was.   
He wishes it would go back to the golden stars.   
To the trophies.   
And the eyes sparkling with hope.   
Not with tears. 

 

He became a joke.   
A monster.   
Not like us.   
Not. Like. Us.   
So disgusting.   
So ugly.   
нелюбимый

 

шлюха.   
He heard it everyday, he had become the dirt on people's feet, the spit upon their lips.   
Something to look at in awe or disgust or lust .   
He had become an object.   
Their fucked up, broken trophy. 

And yet. 

There were those who comforted him

Those who he had hurt so badly 

He couldn't understand. 

Why…   
Why they were being…  
So kind? 

Those eyes that he had made blue, still had that sparkling hope.   
Those smiles that he had made gapped, shone brighter than the stars in the sky.   
Those voices that had pleaded him to stop hurting them. Whispered words of comfort. 

Whispered… 

“You are perfect, Victor. Perfectly you. “

Words that haven't been spoken true in so long. 

And the tears came.   
But now. 

They sparkled with hope. 

His barbed wires disappeared, leaving behind a small pool of silver.   
His smile returned, eventually. 

He will never forgive him   
But he will thank him. 

He will thank him for helping him realise. That his heart was glass, that his love was strong and that he was perfectly him. 

He is perfect in himself.   
He shall continue on.   
With his glass heart.   
With his golden stars. 

And with such bravery 

And with such love.

He shall be Victor.   
And he will be great. 

No, he shall be… 

Perfect.


End file.
